Heaven On Earth
by Soren Gray
Summary: Between walkers and weeping angels, the world has become a pretty dangerous place. Danny and April are trying to survive day-to-day, living on the road. As long as they keep driving, they can outrun the monsters that pursue them.
1. Day 65

Day 65

On the road

Another hot dusty morning in the New Mexico desert

We were heading to Dallas at first, but when a group of survivors coming the other way reported that it had been overrun with angels and walkers alike, we changed course and headed north.

By we, I mean my aunt and I. My name is Danny. I turned 10 last month. April and I have been on the road since she found me, holed up in the bathroom.

The walkers came for our family one night when I was sleeping. I had gotten up to go to the bathroom late one night when I heard the screams. I don't remember much of that night. I flipped the lock on the door and turned off the light, cowering in the bathtub with the shower curtain drawn. I don't know how long I stayed there [the bathroom has no windows]. But after a while the screams stopped and the moans went away. I slept for a long time.

When I woke up, it was to a frantic knock on the door. "Danny!"

"Aunt April?"

"Oh, thank God you're in there. Let me in!"

I unlocked the door and she swept me into her arms, sobbing. I thought I'd cried out all my tears beforehand, but seeing her, I don't know - it just brought them right back.

April is the youngest of all the family, besides me. I think maybe she's twelve, fifteen years older than me? Not much. My mom is her adopted sister. April lived in Los Angeles with her husband. She says that when the walkers came, it was bad. The two of them holed up in their little studio apartment for days, living off what they had in their cupboards. But then the angels came.

Walkers are pretty bad right there. No one knows if they're really zombies in the true sense of the word. They seem to have some recollection of their former lives - they still recognize human faces and can tell the living from the dead. They don't bother other dead people; it's just the living they're hungry for. But the angels - they're something else. Quantum-locked, is what April calls them. Statues until you look away. But once they touch you, they take you, and their victims are never seen again. I can't decide which is worse - having your family come back as undead cannibals, or not coming back at all.

April's husband, Wayne, had no warning at all. An angel touched him, its stone face contorted into a terrible howl. And he was gone, just like that. April caught sight of it fortunately, and it was frozen in place. They stared each other down for a while. Then, slowly, when it looked like it wasn't going to move, April groped for the car keys. They were close by, on the coffee table. Then she backed away, and when she got to the door, swung it shut and bolted it. The angel beat against the door frantically, and April scrambled down the stairs and out the door to the truck.

At first, she wasn't sure what to do next. Angels littered the streets, hands covering their faces. But a glance back in the rear view mirror showed them looking right back at her, watching her drive away. Walkers, drawn to the noise of the truck, left half-eaten bodies where they lay in the street and lumbered after her truck hungrily. April stepped on the gas.

Before she knew it, my aunt was out of the county, driving down the interstate, the city's now-smoking hulk behind her. After she was safely out of the city, she pulled over and vomited into a ditch. Then she sat back in the driver's seat and thought.

I'm honored that our ranch in Montana was the first place she stopped. That I was the first person she thought of. When the walkers claimed my parents, there wasn't enough left of them to turn. But April cut off the heads just to make sure. After she fished me from the bathroom, she and I went through the house and gathered supplies. Where are we going, I asked. Anywhere besides here, she answered. As she bent over to stack a box into the truck, I saw the gun sticking out of its holster, underneath her shirt.

I think that was the moment I stopped being a kid. When I realized that my aunt, who was a pacifist and a vegetarian, who I'd never seen hurt another human being, started carrying a weapon.

"What are you thinking about?" my aunt asks from the driver's seat. The gun sits wedged in the cup holder, between a half-eaten bag of Doritos and two bottles of warm Pepsi, courtesy of an abandoned gas station about fifteen miles back.

"I was thinking that I need to find a gun," I answer.

My aunt is silent for a second. I know it scares her, the idea of a ten-year-old with a gun. But I also know that she and I depend on one another. We're all each other has left. And being able to defend myself would make it easier on her.

"I've always wanted to see Roswell," she finally replies. She does this sometimes; answer an uncomfortable statement with a completely different one, as if what you asked her was not what you asked her in the first place. It's a deflection strategy, and one that I find really, really annoying.

"April." I call her by her first name, an adjustment that I've made at her request ["Aunt is what you call my mother"].

"Yeah, sorry." She chews her lip. "Truth be told, I've been thinking you're about ready for one as well." She takes one hand off the steering wheel and rests it lightly on her gun. "But this is not a toy."

"I know."

"And you're not allowed to use a gun until I train you."

"Ok."

"What do you know about guns?"

"Not much."

"This is a Ruger LCR, .38 special. It means that it's lightweight and got a powerful kick. It also has no safety - it's like a camera, just point and shoot. Most revolvers are like that, you'll come to find out. That also means they're more dangerous. It holds only five rounds, that's what you sacrifice for size. Revolvers are a bitch to reload also, so if you need to use it, you make those five rounds count."

"And you always save one for yourself."

She pauses. "That's right."

It's one our unspoken rules, things that the two of us have picked up from other travelers and from being on the road. Never go more than ten feet from one another. Save water. Don't fall asleep on watch.

"So when am I gonna learn to shoot?"

"Well..." my aunt taps the steering wheel thoughtfully. "We need to find you one first, don't we? It's too bad there's not a sporting goods store around here somewhere."

"We could try the phone again," I offer. When she nods, I fish the Smartphone out of the glove compartment and turn it on. The phone itself doesn't work, but it has a GPS on it and that sometimes gets spotty reception.

As it comes online, I notice a flickering before it goes back to zero bars.

"Hey stop, we got a signal back there!"

My aunt slams on the brakes and puts the truck into reverse. I stare at the screen intently, waiting for the blip to come back.

"Okay, here." She puts the truck into park and kills the engine. Slowly, the fluttering signal on the phone becomes solid. One bar.

Together, we breathe a sigh of relief. "Check Facebook as soon as you're done," she whispers, as if talking too loud would kill the reception.

It might sound like a trivial request, but it's really not. If any of our family has had online access, hopefully they'll post it on there.

I bring up Google, which has an emergency broadcast message in bold red lettering on the page:

THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES HAS DECLARED A NATIONWIDE STATE OF EMERGENCY.

PLEASE STAY IN YOUR HOMES. DO NOT COME INTO CONTACT WITH ANYONE KNOWN TO CARRY THIS DISEASE. AID STATIONS ARE BEING PREPARED AT MAJOR CHECKPOINTS ALONG MOST MAJOR HIGHWAYS. PLEASE REMAIN CALM AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.

I type "sporting goods stores" into the search engine. "Looks like there's an REI in downtown Albuquerque."

"No way are we going into that hornet's nest," she replies. "What else?"

"Looks like there's a Gander Mountain outside of Amarillo."

"That's quite a ways from here though."

"We got anywhere else to be?"

"Let's see if we can find something a bit closer."

I search again. "Hmmm...there's a gun and tackle shop in Los Ranchos."

"That'll do. Now check Facebook."

I pull it up and type in my log on information. My inbox is flooded with messages, and the newsfeed is full of status after status. People looking for family, updates, address changes...

Suddenly the battery starts winking. "Almost out of juice!"

"Write something, quick!" she hisses.

I type in the status window:

"Mom/Dad/Wayne gone, but Apri ok. In NM, driving N. Bat dying, low sig, will check again when able. Love u all."

I hit send, and get a confirmation just before the battery goes dead. My aunt breathes a sigh of relief.

"Let's make sure to hunt down a car charger and see if we can juice it up again," she says.

I grab a pen and write on my arm a list: 1) Gun 2) Car Charger. On second thought, I add 3) Sunglasses. At my aunt's wry look, I protest, "Well, if I'm gonna be carrying, I at least gotta look the part." She just rolls her eyes and smiles.


	2. Day 66

Day 66

Los Ranchos de Albuquerque, New Mexico

We roll off the exit at dawn and immediately are greeted with the smell. It rolls off the highway in waves.

"I don't know if this is such a good idea." April lets the truck idle in the middle of the highway. The path going out of Los Ranchos is packed with cars, all empty. There is a massive pileup on the other side - looks like a cement truck tipped over. Its surrounded by expensive hybrids, all motionless in the harsh sunlight.

It hasn't rained in months. Everything is caked with a fine layer of dust.

"Let's just try it. We'll park on the outskirts," I plead with her. I know it may be irrational, but the thought of having my own gun has now embedded itself in my mind. The freedom to carry my protection with me, instead of depending on someone else for it, has become somewhat of an obsession. I mentally try out different ones, try to picture myself holding a rifle, or a shotgun, or a pistol. I don't think a revolver is my type. No offense to my aunt, but I want something a little more heavy-duty. A kid with a wimpy gun doesn't exactly scream independence.

April's mouth is set in a thin line, but she nods curtly and we make our way into the suburbs. Fortunately, Los Ranchos is made up of sprawling one-story houses with wide streets. Plenty of room to spot walkers or angels.

We come up on the gun and tackle shop. The door is bolted shut, and there is nothing in sight. One of the windows has been broken in. April parks the car right up against the door and grabs the gun from the armrest. I've been stuck with a baseball bat up until this point, a light wooden one that is more for show, but I feel more secure with it anyway.

"You know the drill."

I nod, and crack the door open. It is absolutely deathly quiet, and the sky is tinged with pink. We circle the house, once, twice. We clamber up on the car and check the roof. Then we peer inside the windows. Nothing.

"Okay." April reaches through the door and jiggles the handle. It opens with a creak.

We step inside, and immediately I have to stop myself from letting out a whoop of joy. Behind the counter, mounted on hooks, are rows upon rows of guns. Pristine and untouched, it is every kid's dream. I leap over the counter and pick up the nearest one, a rifle done up in camoflauge with a giant scope.

"Don't go for the gun; pick the ammo," April cautions. But I can hear the gladness in her voice. I duck underneath the counter.

"Looks like there's some .38 specials here, and some 9 millimeter."

"Make sure to pick a gun that shoots at least one of those, then. We'll be taking the .38 Special, either way."

I grab three boxes of bullets and set them on the counter. Then my eyes drift towards the door. My blood runs cold.

"April!"

To her credit, she doesn't even question the look on my face. She reacts on instinct, drawing her gun and swinging around...pointing it straight into the face of an angel.

It has come out from behind the door where it was hiding. Its face is contorted into a hideous growl, a hand reaching out for her. Its claws are frozen centimeters from her face.

"Holy shit." Hot liquid courses down my leg, but I'm too terrified to be embarrassed.

"Don't blink!" she snaps, harshly. Her voice is thick with fear. She keeps her gun pointed at the angel and steps back cautiously. "Look around, but DON'T BLINK. Are there any more? Is there anything behind me?"

"Nothing behind you." Carefully, making sure to keep my eyes wide, I look around the room.

"Are there any other doors, any other hiding places?"

"There's a storage room door behind the counter."

"Is it locked?"

"No."

"Check behind it. Carefully. One look, that's it."

I make my way towards it and lay my hand on the handle.

One look, that's all. That's it. Three seconds.

I swing open the door, and three things happen at once. First, the smell of rotting meat hits my nose like a wave. Second, the Walker gnawing on a leg bone looks up at me. Third, a rack of carefully stacked fishing tackle comes crashing to the ground behind me.

"Danny!" April screams. I swing the door closed as the walker lurches to its feet, lumbering towards me. I flip the lock closed, and it bangs against the door, wailing, clawing at the woodwork. I turn around just in time to see another walker staggering towards April. It's flailing arms are sweeping over displays of carefully stacked boxes.

"Where is it?" she screams again. She hasn't taken her eyes off the angel, but she's switched the gun to her other hand.

"Nine o'clock!" Without looking, she raises the revolver and fires.

She hits the walker in the chest. It staggers backwards a bit, stunned, but then shakes it off. No headshot.

Immediately, I scramble over the counter with my stupid wooden baseball bat. Instinct overtakes me. I swing at the back of its head as hard as I can.

Blood spatters everywhere and it goes down. The reverberation of hitting solid bone is so strong, it makes my teeth rattle. It moans on the floor, blood spurting out of its broken skull in a thick red geyser. I come down hard on it again with my bat. This time, the cheap wood splinters and cracks, leaving nothing but a useless stump in my hand. The walker is down though, and it's not moving.

My first kill. I barely even have time to think about it. My hands are shaking again, my chest is heaving violently, and I can hardly register the fact that I'm screaming, that April's screaming, tears are running down my face, and my legs feel like jelly.

"Danny! Danny boy, you're ok, you're ok!" April's eyes are watery with tears, her eyes still glued to the angel. "I need you to stay with me, okay?"

I sniffle and breathe in a heavy sob before scrubbing my eyes. The locked door shudders now with the impact. The other walker is throwing its weight against the wooden frame, trying to break it down. Long cracks have appeared in the wood. We don't have much time.

"Danny, I can't keep my eyes open any longer!" She frantically motions me over. "Look at him! Don't blink!" I train my eyes on the angel, on his ravenous demon gaze, and force myself to stare at it. April steps away, groaning as she squints her eyes shut. She steps out of my line of vision.

"April!?"

"Right here Danny boy. Just grabbing something." I can hear her rummaging around behind me, but can't see anything. Already, my eyes are getting dry and prickly around the edges. I swallow and keep my eyes on it. Is it my imagination, or is it moving closer imperceptibly?

Something blurry moves jerkily in my peripheral, out on the street. Another walker - the gunshot must have alerted them. "April!?"

"Im here!" She is beside me now. "I've got it, you can blink now."

My eyes are glued open, though. There's no way I'll be able to blink, not with that thing staring at me. The door in the corner gives one last groan, and then begins to collapse. One hinge snaps loose.

"Get to the car, Danny!" I don't need to be told twice. I skirt out the door. It's fortunate that she parked so close to the entrance, it's a mere five feet away. I get in and slam the door closed, locking it behind me. I see April inside, carefully keeping her eyes on the statue as she creeps backwards towards the door. Once she feels the doorknob in her hand, she swings it closed and bolts. She has a big plastic grocery bag in her hand.

The walker on the street has seen her now. It groans and shifts direction, lumbering towards her. Without hesitation, she shoots it once in the head and it falls to the ground. Quickly, she swings the car door open and leaps inside, tossing me the bag.

The door to the stop opens, and the walker comes roaring out. By now, other walkers have emerged onto the street, staggering closer. The angel is at the window, staring at us with motionless stone eyes. I blink, and it's next to the car window, inches away from my face, its hand resting on the glass.

"APRIL!"

She floors it. We tear away from the shop. "Keep looking at it!" she shrieks. I obey - not like I could possibly do anything besides stare at it. I keep my eyes on it as long as I can before the car's squealing tires kick up too much dust and it is obscured from view.

The speedometer reads 110 miles an hour as we shred out of Los Ranchos. She jerks the car onto the other side of the road and we race around the pileup, down the opposite lane, onto the highway.

It's a long time before we stop. It's not until the sign on the road reads "Welcome to Colorado" that we finally pull off the road and creak to a halt.

We both breathe heavily for a long time. Her eyes are glued to the rearview mirror, watching for any signs of pursuit. There's nothing, of course. The angel won't follow. It'll stay there waiting, the perfect trap for the next guests that come along. How many people have made the same mistake we did? How many made it out?

I want to cry again, but I'm afraid to close my eyes. Instead, I glance down at the grocery bag in my lap. "What's in here?"

April gives me a weak grin. "What, you didn't think we'd leave without getting you your gun, did you?"

I fish inside and draw out a semi-automatic pistol. It is black, sleek, perfect. I stare at it in wonder.

April continues. "It's a Keltec P-11. Semi-auto, easy reload, super compact. Holds 10, plus one in the chamber. Figured it would be a good starter for you."

"Does it take .38 Special?"

"No, 9 millimeter. But don't worry, I grabbed some of that." I look inside the bag again. There are six boxes of ammo, three of each.

I carefully, carefully place the weapon inside the bag, then reach over to give her a ferocious hug. "Thank you."

The hug she gives back to me is just as tight. "I'm sorry for doubting you. I know that you've had to grow up fast. Looks like we need to watch each other's backs from now on, eh?"

And that's when I put my face to her shoulder and sob like a baby.


	3. Day 67-68

Day 67

Colorado border

We've stopped for gas at a Texaco. After our stint in Los Ranchos, the tank was nearly dry, so we limped into a gas station. The sign above says "NO GAS", but there was an empty Hummer parked out back with a nearly full tank. I ask if we should take it and abandon the truck, but April was against it.

"It's a guzzler," she states, running her hands through the dust build up on its hood. "We'll be stopping for gas every 15 minutes with this thing. Besides," and here she glances back at the dented brown truck, "I don't think I could bear leaving Lucy on the side of the road."

"Lucy? That's a horrible name."

"You never watched I Love Lucy?"

"Is that like a reality show or something?"

"Ugh! You kids these days!"

"It needs something a little more badass, don't you think?"

"What, like 'Batman'?"

"No, that's stupid." I think for a minute. "What about Sam?"

"Why that name?"

"You know, like Sam Adams."

"You want to name my truck after a crappy beer?"

"Is it really bad?"

"You might as well name it 'Urine' instead." I giggle at that. April always has a way with words. She makes people laugh. She grins and ruffles my hair.

"That's ok, I don't like beer."

"When did you try it?"

"Dad had some once, at Christmas. He let me take a sip of his."

"Well, to be honest, people don't really drink it for the flavor," April admits. Quickly, she checks the gas can and wraps up the siphon hose from the Hummer. Together, we walk over to the Lucy/Sam/Urine and pour the salvaged gas into the tank. Once we're done, April eyes the gas station inside. She and I both hate the idea of going in there, but we are out of food again.

I begin to reach for the yellow bag in the passenger seat, but April stops me. "You're not trained yet. You're not gonna shoot that thing until I feel comfortable with it." She hands me a rusty crowbar instead.

Together, we scout out the building, making double and triple sure there are no angels behind the door. But today is our lucky day. The place is completely deserted. We don't score a ton, but there are some swiss cake rolls left on a shelf and a couple bags of chips in the vending machine. April takes a swing at it with the fire extinguisher and we retrieve our prizes from the broken shards of glass. On our way out, April pops open the ice chest outside. The power's been out for a long time and all the bags of ice have melted, but she hoists them out anyway. Never know when you'll need water, even lukewarm.

Carefully, we stack our supplies in the bed of the truck and feast on Bugles and swiss cake rolls. We tear a tiny, tiny hole in one of the bags and let the melted ice dribble into our mouths. April carefully pinches and knots it shut when we're done, to save as much as we can. True to our newly-learned survival skills, we hardly spill a drop.

I lick my fingers clean, trying to ignore the empty rumbling in my belly. "So, when am I gonna learn to use my gun?"

"Hmmm?"

"Well, I need to learn how to shoot, right?"

"We need to find a place where you can practice." She doesn't say what doesn't need to be said – that any gunshot will draw walkers, or angels, or both.

"Too bad there's no soundproof buildings nearby."

"Yeah, if we had battery, we could check around." April has already scrounged for a car charger for the smartphone – no such luck.

"That's ok, kiddo. We'll find a place to practice. And when we do, I'm sure you'll be a natural."

"I hope so." I pause for a second. "My mom used to call me kiddo."

April grows silent, stops chewing her swiss cake roll. Then, "do you want me to stop?"

"No, I like it."

"She was a good mom." April doesn't believe in grieving in silence. That's what she told me. She thinks that the people you've lost should be celebrated, talked about often, remembered.

In the beginning, after I lost my parents, I couldn't talk about it. We were on the road, going from place to place, chasing down one pipe dream after the next. I would stare out the window for long periods of time. It wasn't that I was ignoring her. I just…couldn't say much. It took too much effort, left me too drained.

So April started talking. She never demanded that I respond. She used to talk to people for a living, so maybe she got that I couldn't speak about it. She began one day out of nowhere, telling me stories about her husband, Uncle Wayne. Not about how he died, but about his childhood, about why he loved Los Angeles, about why he liked to wear flip-flops. She told me about the first time they kissed, about the time they bought their first couch, the time they spent the day together planting flowers in the rain.

Slowly, slowly, I started coming out of my shell to her. And I started to see that this was her way of mourning. Calling out and highlighting all the little things, so that she wouldn't forget, so that the people we'd lost would continue to live on. I started to share also, bits and pieces of my parents. Gradually, over long stretches of miles and sipping warm bottles of Gatorade, we began to heal together.

"She was a VERY good mom," I reply after a long second. And for the first time, I'm able to say it without tears. April draws her arm over my shoulder and kisses my right temple.

"You want the rest of my swiss cake roll?" She holds it out in the cellophane wrapper towards me.

"Sure." I munch on it thoughtfully.

Day 68

On Hwy 285, outside of Alamosa, Colorado

We parked on a bluff overlooking the mountain range last night. Normally, we roll out our sleeping bags in the bed of the truck, but after yesterday's incident we both curled up in the cab and spent an uncomfortable night on hard plastic seats.

This morning, I stretch out and listen to my joints crack. I feel so old some days, like my body's already going to shit.

As we snack on the last of the Bugles for breakfast, April breaks the silence. "I was thinking that here might be the perfect place to teach you how to shoot."

I glance around. "Here? We're awfully exposed."

"Sure. But there's nothing around for miles. I figure, even if the sound does attract something, we'll be able to spot it a mile away and hightail it out long before it gets to us. It's not often that we have a lookout like this."

Makes sense to me.

The first two hours is just mechanics. Where the safety is, how to load and unload it. How to hold it when shooting, how to aim, how to hold the grip. Then it's how to carry. April shows me how to have it concealed, like she does. Along the hip or small of the back is great, especially since I'm a kid. "People are always gonna underestimate you because you're young and don't look like you can handle yourself," she warns. "You use that against them."

After she's pretty confident I know how to handle it, she sets up a couple small targets, about 10 feet away. We don't have much to shoot at, but she uses a couple empty Gatorade bottles. I carefully lower my Keltec and squeeze the trigger like she said.

BAM! The jolt sends a shockwave through my veins. On the other side of the hill, birds let out a cry and take to the air. The plastic bottle teeters somewhat, but doesn't fall. I try again. And again. A full clip later, I finally manage to knock the damn thing over and it shatters with a satisfying crunch.

"Here," April says. She hands me her Ruger and sets another Gatorade bottle up. When she steps back, I squeeze it, confident now.

BAM! This one blows a good three-inch hole in the side of the hill. "Man!" I complain, taking my hand off the grip to shake my wrist. She grins wryly.

"Not bad for a wimpy girl gun, eh?"

"How do you even shoot this thing?"

"You get used to it."

By the end of the next hour, she and I have shot at least a dozen times each, and I'm finally getting good enough to where I can hit the bottle every other time. I'm pretty happy about my progress, and although I know I've got a ways to go before I'm as good as April, the power that carrying my own weapon gives me is one that can't be beat. This time, instead of slipping it back into the bag, I sling it at my hip, like she does.

My good feeling stops though, when I glance out over the bluff. Our shots have attracted walkers. They're nothing more than tiny staggering forms far below, but there are a lot of them. From way up here, I count at least twenty, and there are probably more just out of sight, or on the path. April glances over at me and frowns.

"In the truck," she orders. I hop in and she starts the engine, but instead of roaring to life like it usually does, it just gives a helpless gasp and dies.

"No, no, no, no, no," she whisperes frantically, cranking the key over again with the same result. I take a look at the seatbelt, which was wedged in the door when I opened it.

"Looks like it drained the battery," I say by way of explanation, twisting the buckle inside.

"Fuck," she whispers.

We sit still for a moment and think. By now, other Walkers have come out of the woods and are moving towards us at a steady rate. They'll be up on the bluff in about ten minutes.

"Okay, out of the truck. We're gonna roll start it." She hops out and braces herself against the steering wheel and the open door. I mimic her on the other side. This would be impossible in an automatic truck - thank God for Uncle Wayne and his belief in "the basics".

The little brown truck slowly coasts down the gentle incline. April keeps a firm hand on the wheel, steering it towards the bottom of the hill. "Hop in!" I slide inside and so does she, slamming the door shut as we round the curve in the road. On the other side is a walker, a dried-up husk of cracked skin and yellow bone, eyes glazed over.

April sets her jaw and pops the clutch. For a second, the truck starts, then stalls. Out again. But now we're getting more speed. She does it again. Finally, the truck roars to life, and as we speed down the road, she opens the door and clocks the Walker full in the jaw. Blood bursts out, spattering her window and the sides of the truck. We race down the road and back onto 285, weaving in between walkers and heading back out to the open stretch toward Alamosa.

For some reason, the gun on my hip makes it easier to deal with walkers. One clean headshot, and they're done. They're something I can handle, now.


	4. Day 59

Day 69

Outside of Alamosa, Colorado

We hear the caravan approaching before we see it.

In a lot of ways, live humans are so much more dangerous than walkers or angels. Seems like the only kind that are out there these days are the worst kind, the kind that wouldn't think twice about trying to prey on the two of us. We can hold our own, of course [and we have], but seems like every time we encounter a group, it's always the same way.

Understandably, April is nervous. There's another pileup on the road, with cars packed like sardines on the highway. She pulls the truck into a shallow ditch at an angle - enough to make it look like it was abandoned without hurting the undercarriage too much - and we pile out. Crouching low to avoid being seen, she and I scrape underneath a 15-passenger van. Hopefully, the caravan will pass us by and we'll be back on the road in a few minutes.

Not for the first time, I wish we could just turn tail and head the other way, but turning around isn't an option this time. Alamosa's crawling, and we're pretty much stuck on this highway until it opens up to one of the other major interstates. Briefly, April and I toyed with the idea of heading to Des Moines, where my grandparents are supposed to be, but it seemed too risky. Right now, the game plan is to head north, maybe winter in Canada if we can make it that far. Even if walkers can't be killed by snow, burying them under ten feet of it might at least slow them down.

A motorcycle growls beside us, rattling the shards of broken glass on the pavement. It coasts through the maze of cars. We're too low to see the riders. It's followed by a couple of cars and a rumbling RV, its massive hulk scraping against the fender. April grips my hand tightly. I can barely breathe.

Suddenly, one of the cars screeches to a halt as black smoke starts billowing. There's a popping sound before the ignition dies out. The R.V. and the motorcycle putter to a stop.

"Fuck," April whispers.

There's a burst of commotion as the driver of the busted car steps out. I can't see anything except their shoes. One is a pair of faded green heavy combat boots, the other a pair of sky-blue canvas slippers.

"What's wrong with it?" a man calls out.

"Not sure!" the pair of boots replies. The man's accent is heavy with Southern twang. Whoever it belongs to is from way down south - Texas or Mississippi, maybe. "What do you think, Dale?"

"It could be any one of three things," the other voice replies. It's soft, older. "I'll need some time to take a look at it."

"How much time?"

"An hour, maybe more."

Underneath the car, April rolls her eyes in exasperation. I know how she feels. Already, the asphalt is getting uncomfortable.

Another voice, a woman's, speaks up this time. "We can't stay here exposed like this. I don't feel safe on the highway."

"Can't be helped, Lori." That's a different man, this one sporting polished brown leather boots. He walks up from one of the other cars. I can see the barrel of a shotgun hanging from his hand. "Let's set up a perimeter while Dale and Glenn work on the car. In the meantime, maybe we can go through some of these and scavenge supplies."

"Sounds like a plan. Carl, can you fetch my tool bag from the R.V?" The pair of canvas slippers asks.

"Sure, Dale." That one is a kid for sure. April and I glance at each other. So this group has at least one woman and a kid with them. That's not a guarantee that they're okay of course, but it's good to know.

The group disperses, and April pokes my shoulder to get my attention. I can barely make out her mouthed words: Settle in. Now it's my turn to roll my eyes.

The hours seem to tick by in slow motion. I can tell by the shadows on the asphalt that it's now afternoon. We've been here for three hours, maybe? By now, my stomach is rumbling and all I can think about is how comfortable those hard leather seats in the truck actually were, and wondering if leather is edible. April is dozing intermittently. That's fine with me - I've got the Keltec, and she's had so little sleep these past few weeks that when she does finally shut her eyes I'm inclined to let her be.

The group seems to be pretty big, even for a caravan. The other survivors we've encountered usually tend to be small clusters of people. Occasionally a family or two. There's about five or six women in this one, the one kid, and then the rest are men. Hard to tell if they're all related, or if they're just people who have found each other. The kid seems to be getting yelled at by everyone though, getting underfoot and wandering off constantly. To pass the time, I make up a game. Every time someone asks where he is, I imagine that I'm eating a donut. So far I'm at a good half-dozen.

I'm in the middle of snacking on an imaginary long john when it happens. Blue Canvas Shoes drops a wrench on the ground. "Carl, can you get that?" he mutters absently. The kid bends down to retrieve it, and as his hand grasps the wrench, he happens to glance up. His eyes meet mine, an we are locked in a stare for a long second.

Then he begins to scream.

I don't think; I just act. April jerks awake as I spring out from underneath the van. I grab the kid by his shirt collar and hold the pistol up to his chin, pinning him against the car.

"What the hell?" Dale screeches. A rifle is cocked, and I can see the barrel in my peripheral.

"Put it down, kid!" Mississippi bellows in my ear. April darts out from underneath the van.

"Put it down or I'll blow your brains out," she snaps, her voice low and gritty. I chance a quick look over - she's got her revolver trained on the man's temple. He's tall and built like a football player, his muscles wrapped around a pump-action shotgun. It's trained on the back of my skull.

The kid I've got in my hand is still screaming, tears streaming down his face. He's about my age, his face still soft with baby fat. Everything about him is moldable, even his chubby little arms I'm gripping. Is this how I look to the rest of them?

Doesn't matter. I know April won't hesitate to pull the trigger. I'm not so sure I could do the same - killing walkers is one thing, killing a kid is something else. I just concentrate on trying to make it look convincing.

The sound of frantic running comes up behind me. "Carl?!"

"Mom!" the kid sobs in my arms. "Mom, help me!"

"Stand down!" the man with the shotgun barks.

"Get your gun off him." April bites off each word with a snap.

"Okay, let's all be reasonable about this," another male voice says from behind me. "I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding. Please," and I can tell he's addressing everyone here, "no one wants to hurt anyone. Let's just all put our guns down, together. Okay? Shane?"

The shotgun barrel wavers for a second, then drops slowly. I glance at April, and she nods at me. As one, we both lower our pistols. The kid breaks out of my arms and dashes to his mother, a skinny dark-haired woman. She clutches him frantically and glares at us with accusing eyes.

Mr. Reasonable looks every inch the clean-cut cop. Sheriff's badge, hat, uniform - the whole nine yards, as April would say. As a matter of fact, most of the group quickly surrounding us looks in pretty good health. All of them have had showers recently, and look more or less well-fed.

I can only imagine how April and I must look to the rest of them. Dirty, ragged, all sharp edges from lack of good food. The food from the gas station is nothing more than a distant memory.

Mississippi eyes us appraisingly. "What are you doing hidin' under there anyhow?"

April and I look at each other. Finally, after a long second, April answers, "Getting a suntan."

"Are there any more of you?" Mr. Reasonable asks. When that doesn't get a reply, he adds, "Look, we're not here to hurt anyone. As soon as we fix up our cars, we'll be on our way. But if there's any more of your party hiding under these cars, we need to know."

"How do we know we can trust you?" she asks.

He spreads his hands wide. "Look around. There's nine of us, and two of you. If we wanted to do you harm, it would've happened by now."

Dale speaks up. "And we don't make a habit of pointing guns at the living." It's an accusation, clearly, but April doesn't take the bait. She's too tired and I'm too hungry to argue.

I break the silence. "There's no one else. We're it."

Mississippi motions to two others, a skinny Asian teenager and a blonde woman in her early thirties. "Check under the cars just in case."

Mr. Reasonable's expression is still guarded, but his tone is compassionate. "Are you hungry?"

The glint in our eyes must be unmistakeable, although both of us say nothing. He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a couple of granola bars, holding them out to us like a peace offering.

I snatch the bars out of his hand and toss one to April. She tears into hers with the ferocity of a lion. It takes everything I have not to devour it whole. Instead, I make myself chew with my mouth closed, savoring each stale bite like it was a feast.

At our reactions, even Mississippi's icy tone thaws a bit. "Where you folks from?"

"Montana," I reply with my mouth full. "April's from LA." Her eyes flash a warning, but it's too late. My trust has already been bought, paid for with stale nuts and fruit pressed into a square. "You?"

"Georgia," Mississippi replies. "Outside of Atlanta." He squints towards the road as the others come back. No others hiding under cars, I guess. "It got overrun with walkers, so we were heading west. Heard there was a refugee camp in Salt Lake City."

"Nah," April jumps in, her mouth also full. "Angels and walkers everywhere. Same with Albuquerue and Dallas. We just passed through Alamosa and it's no different."

"Angels?" Dale asks, confused.

"Yeah."

"What do you mean, angels?"

"Big gray statues with wings?"

"What?" By now the entire group has stopped. The looks on their faces range from bemused to indcredulous. Only Mr. Reasonable studies us carefully.

I lick my fingers clean. "Thanks for the food."

"Let me get this straight. You're saying that statues are coming to life? And...doing what?" That was the blonde with the curly hair.

"If they touch you, they take you. What, you don't have them where you're from?"

"That sounds crazy." That was the dark-haired woman, the one clutching Carl.

"No more crazy than dead people coming back to life," April retorts.

Mr. Reasonable puts a hand up. "No one is distrusting your word, ma'am."

"I am," the blonde scoffs.

"It's true!" I interject."They took Uncle Wayne. They almost got her in Los Ranchos."

The group has fallen silent. "We know how crazy it prolly sounds to someone who hasn't seen it. If I hadn't seen it for myself, I might not have believed it either. But they're real. And they're moving. If you don't have them yet in Atlanta, that's good. But you will." I clear my throat; not used to saying so much in front of strangers. "But uh, thanks for the food. And good luck, or whatever."

The blonde shifts uncomfortably. Dale leans forward. "Saying we believe you, son - you really think you two are safe out there on your own?"

This time, it's April's turn to reply. "We've been okay so far. Kept moving, managed to stay one step ahead of 'em."

Dale gestures towards the sun. It's dipping below the horizon, casting long shadows across the road. "You're really gonna head out right now? It's almost night. There's walkers everywhere. And if these things. these...angels...are out there too, shouldn't you probably stick with the group? At least for tonight?" April shifts uneasily. As much as she hates to admit it, Dale is right. Our car works fine as long as we roll-start it, but this whole stretch of highway is flat ground. We'll need to get a running start, and we won't be able to steer around all the junk in the road without light.

"You won't be prisoners, you'll be guests," he persists, casting a glance at Mr. Reasonable and Mississippi. "Right?"

Together, they both nod slowly. "Scout's honor, ma'am," Mississippi replies. "You'll be free to go in the morning."

April and I share a long look.

"Are you setting up here, on the highway?" she asks finally.

Mr. Reasonable shakes his head. "No, there's a small clearing on a bluff a few hundred yards back. We'll make camp there tonight." April nods reluctantly. In response, he sticks his hand out.

"Rick."

She shakes it. "April. And this is Danny."

"This is Shane," he nods towards Mississippi. "That's Dale, the blonde is Andrea, and this is my wife, Lori, and our son, Carl." I notice that they don't move. She stares at me and April with a mix of disgust and fear. But Carl, the son, has eyes for only my gun. I tighten my grip on it.

We fall into step with the group as they abandon their vehicles on the road. Slowly, they trickle through the maze, back down the road. As we walk, April's hand reaches out to clutch mine. I notice that, like me, her other hand rests on her gun.

"We don't know these people," she hisses sharply. "You stay close to me. We're out first thing in the morning."


End file.
